


Game On

by betterrecieved



Category: Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrecieved/pseuds/betterrecieved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>venomedveins prompted agron bathing nasir (!) pre-slash, with emotionalness and cocky agron and nasir’s hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venomedveins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomedveins/gifts).



Memory of first b battle remains with Nasir while Agron washes Nasir's blood-stained arms and hands:

Fresh-spilled blood pooled over every surface, sluggish and thick, dark as wine under thick canopy of forest. His sword and skin sticky with gore, breeches soaked to his legs, hair glued across his cheek, metallic tang of death filling his flared nostrils. 

“I have killed more Romans than I could count today,” Nasir marvels. 

Before Spartacus freed him he was not allowed even to meet gaze of Roman, could not lift his eyes to plead or reproach or even to look. Now he is leaving forest smeared with carnage of Romans done by his own hands that were once kept so soft, so useless.

Now he stares them in eyes before he kills them. 

Nasir must know if he is becoming more himself, or something else, something inhuman: Is it like this for Agron - does Agron bash and break Romans as he does not because it kills them, but to see blood that lets him know that they are dead?

Agron swirls warm wet sponge over width of Nasir’s back, rivulets of water clinging to Nasir’s skin, soaking band of his breeches. 

Sponge dips down to where Nasir’s breeches are loosely tied, threatens to move down over swell of his ass, lingers and stills. Nasir can barely draw breath, his chest hitching to take in air.

Sponge moves up over Nasir’s body, quickly, efficiently, done. Agron finally replies.

“Roman shits were never alive. And you will yet swat them like flies. That was only practice.” 

Nasir grows quiet inside and out while Agron’s fingertips firmly massage his scalp.

Agron produces carved bone comb. “It was for you..” 

Before Nasir can express gratitude, Agron becomes brusque. He does not ask Nasir to bend his head but instead moves his head for him. Grumbles to himself under his breath: dissatisfaction with his progress or grim pleasure at defeating bad tangle. 

“Nasir.” Agron jostles him. Nasir blinks. “You fall to slumber while I work?” Agron accuses. But fondness colors his voice and Nasir is warmed through. 

“I am awake,” Nasir says, yawning. When he attempts to aid Agron his hand is firmly pushed aside.

“I will do it for you.” 

“Is it too long?” Nasir asks anxiously. He has worried that Spartacus might find his hair liability in battle, request that he remove vanity. But this is not like foolish pride in being head body slave. Dominus never noticed his hair. 

(Amidst clang and clamor of returning rebels, somehow Agron notices all of Nasir staggering dazed into camp, leads him to warm spring and shrugs out of his armor. Nasir’s chin lowers to his chest - it is too soon for such intimacy, though Nasir supposes he would let him, if Agron asked…

 

Nasir feels burn of Agron staring at him for long moment. 

Agron says nothing, keeps his subligar on. 

Washes first himself, then Nasir clean of brains and teeth and twigs, brushes knuckles against Nasir’s cheek so that Nasir leans into ghosted touch like feline - but Agron is only gathering his hair.) 

When Agron does not reply Nasir feels emboldened by physical closeness, by Agron’s forearm resting against his spine as he fists Nasir’s hair with one hand, combs with the other. “Perhaps I should not wish to keep it…”

“I wish you to keep it.” Agron’s hand moves so that Nasir feels layers of his hair card through Agron’s fingers. “It is perfect.” Agron whips comb through length, then forms single braid down Nasir’s back. “You are p-”

“Agron.” Nasir bites down on his bottom lip, breathing hard. Briefly nurtures thought of running away. He is not ready to meet Agron’s eyes, will never be ready now. 

“Nasir.” His chin is grasped hard, face forced upward. “Look at me.”

Without rage or fear coursing through him it is daunting task. Nasir’s eyes water, they waver. His stomach lurches with panic, his heart constricts with new unnamable emotion. 

Nasir’s gaze stutters hesitantly up to Agron’s face. Agron is softly smiling. Name of unfamiliar feeling occurs to Nasir. “Agron…”

“Agron!” calls Spartacus. 

Agron squeezes Nasir’s shoulder with lingering parting touch. 

Now Nasir does not waste time staring Romans in eye before he kills them.


End file.
